


Always Friends

by kw20742



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, Old Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:50:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kw20742/pseuds/kw20742
Summary: When Veronica ends up in hospital, Maggie gets to be the one to call Jocelyn.





	Always Friends

**Author's Note:**

> As in my other M/J adventures, I assume as canon the events depicted in Erin Kelly’s official Broadchurch short stories, “The Letter” and “Old Friends” (Minataur Books 2015), including: Jocelyn and Maggie weren’t in touch as of September 2002, and local conservative politician Jan Barnsley is J’s nearest neighbour. I also assume as part of my headcanon most elements of the lovely “Moments in Time” by spilled_notes.

_Late November 2009_

Having rehearsed as best she can what she’s going to say, Maggie Radcliffe switches on her car’s Bluetooth and dials the number still saved in her list of contacts. For specifically this purpose.

She’s known for some years now that she would be the emergency conduit between Veronica and her London-based daughter if something were to happen here in Broadchurch. Especially since Veronica’s dementia diagnosis last year. But the practical application of that knowledge is proving rather more emotionally fraught than Maggie had anticipated.

With a resigned sigh and determinedly pursed lips, she makes the left out of the cottage hospital car park that will take her back into town. Jocelyn’s office phone is now on its fifth ring, and Maggie sends a little plea out into the universe: _Please, please, please don’t make me have to call the flat._

***  
Meanwhile, in her second-floor chambers in Milford Lane, Jocelyn Knight is still at her desk. As usual. Darkness has descended outside and in, and the only illumination comes now from a small table lamp throwing soft but surprisingly effective beams across the stack of police reports she’s been trying to get through for the last hour and a half. The persistent grainy spot at the centre of her vision means slow work, though, and it’s already been a long day.

Absentmindedly, she pinches the bridge of her nose underneath her reading glasses. Her eyes are tired, and she can feel another headache coming on.

Save the soothing _sotto voce_ of the radio presenter announcing an upcoming evening of Yo-Yo Ma playing Bach’s cello concertos at Royal Albert Hall, she is alone in the suite of offices. She thinks briefly about going to the concert but then decides against it. She doesn’t really enjoy Bach anymore. The cello concertos, especially, just make her sad, regardless of who’s playing them.

The phone on her desk buzzes adamantly, but she ignores it and keeps reading. Her clerk will get it.

Eventually.

Exhaling audibly, she tries to concentrate. But after a few more buzz-buzz-buzzes, Matt still hasn’t picked it up, so she abruptly answers it herself, if only to terminate the infernal interruption.

“Jocelyn Knight,” she barks impatiently, more than half her brain still absorbed by police reports.

“Hi, Jocelyn. It’s Maggie Radcliffe.”

She inhales sharply. Unaccustomed to having to answer her own calls, Jocelyn’s picked up the phone without looking at the digital display first.

She glances at the time on the LED screen, remembering now: she sent Matt home an hour ago.

_Bollocks_. Had she known who was calling, she would _definitely_ have let it go to voice mail.

Her breath is shallow, and she’s almost certain her heart has stopped beating. She hasn’t seen the _Echo_ ’s editor since the last day of her summer holiday in Broadchurch a few years back when they collided with each other quite forcefully, and very much by accident, parcels and limbs flying every which way.

The day she finally understood that what she felt— _feels_ —for Maggie Radcliffe is a deep and profound love.

Love. Such a simple word for such a complicated, profoundly life-altering emotion.

 _Bloody hell_ , she thinks to herself, really starting to panic now, _why is Maggie calling me? What does she want? And why in hell did I answer the bloody phone?_

Forcing her eyes to focus in on the small potted plant on her desk, to trace the lines of a single, curly green and white leaf from top to bottom, she inhales and then exhales a slow, deep breath. Compartments. Compartments are crucial.

“Jocelyn?” Maggie prompts rather tersely. She doesn’t have the energy this evening for anything other than the task at hand.

“Yes. Hi.” Jocelyn’s proud of how steady her voice is.

“Hi,” Maggie responds, “listen…” She pauses. To remember her script. “Your mum’s in hospital.”

Just about the time Maggie says it out loud, though, it occurs to Jocelyn that the only possible reason Maggie would be calling her is because that’s precisely what Veronica had asked her to do.

“What happened?”

“Looks like she left a couple of burners on, and all the windows were shut.”

Although Jocelyn says nothing, Maggie hears the anxious intake of breath at the other end of the line and continues, “She’s asking for you. And the doctors need you here. They’re talking about next steps, about long-term care.”

“Is she awake?”

“She’s in and out. They’re keeping her overnight.”

“At the cottage hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Are you with her now?”

“No. I’m heading up to the house.” Maggie flips on her right blinker, looking in her rearview mirror before making the right turn that will take her to West Cliff Road. “Figured I’d bring her a few things. She’ll be more comfortable.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Jocelyn replies, vaguely remembering that her mum had told Maggie about the spare key in the terra cotta pot on the balcony in the back garden. _Just in case, love, to have someone local_ , she had explained.

And it did make sense, although Jocelyn didn’t think too much of it at the time. She didn’t like to imagine her mum getting older, needing anyone. She’d always been independent. Even before Jocelyn’s father died. She taught her daughter well. _Perhaps too well_ , Jocelyn posits not for the first time. And anyway, the dementia diagnosis last year hadn’t seemed actually real; Veronica got words confused, yes, and sometimes forgot things. But she’s eighty-four, for goodness sake, and isn’t all that just a regular part of aging?

During Jocelyn’s summer vacation this past July, though, it became quite clear that they’d need help soon. It was just a matter of time.

And that time is now. Apparently.

She glances up at the clock and then over to the not insignificant stack of briefs on top of the filing cabinet. “Will you stay with her until I get there? I think I can still make the last train.”

Maggie hesitates, not because she doesn’t want to, but because when she woke up this morning, she hadn’t planned on seeing Jocelyn Knight today. Or ever again, really. But then she remembers: Veronica asked her to do this, to be the person she could count on in Broadchurch. And so she will be.

“Will do,” she says, but not without wondering how this is all going to work, exactly. She hasn’t set eyes on Jocelyn since—

“I’ll see you in a few hours then.”

“Right,” Maggie confirms. But fuck it, she reminds herself, she’s a grown-arse adult, and it was Jocelyn who lied. Ran away. Disappeared. Not her.

Still, she can’t help but think about the time they last met, very much by accident that sunny Sunday afternoon in July. _Will she have changed much since then_ , Maggie wonders, embarrassed anew at having slammed quite forcefully into the eminent QC that day on the High Street.

It must’ve been about three or four summers ago now. Maggie had been heading back to work, looking down towards the harbour, when, all of a sudden, her progress was abruptly stymied by a mighty barrier in the person of Jocelyn Knight, who let out a startled yelp as their collision sent parcels flying everywhere.

Maggie apologized and retrieved Jocelyn’s novel for her. Kate Chopin’s _The Awakening_. Not one she’d ever read, although she’d always meant to. So, she borrowed a copy from the library later that week. Just to see what Jocelyn was up to, thinking about.

That collision marked the first time in years that she’d seen any evidence whatsoever of Jocelyn’s continued existence. She heard snippets from Veronica, of course. And now and again from friends and colleagues who’d seen the local girl made good about town. That was how she knew when Jocelyn was in Broadchurch and, thus, to stay out of her way. And to this day, she’d still swear up and down that Veronica had mentioned that Jocelyn was leaving that _morning_. Yet, there she was, emerging from the bookshop on that lovely Sunday afternoon in July.

And she was gorgeous! She would’ve taken Maggie’s breath away even without having literally slammed into her. She was still slim, willowy. So elegant. Legs for days in those incongruous blue jeans. Her hair was much shorter, though, the loose golden waves replaced by a nape-length bob and laced now with a bit of grey that glinted in the sunlight. She was, frankly, more beautiful than ever.

 _For fuck’s sake_ , Maggie rebukes herself, rolling her eyes in exasperation as she makes the left that will take her up to the house atop Briar Cliff. So she can grab a few things for Veronica. So she can go back to the hospital. So she can sit and await the arrival of the prodigious QC from on high in London.

Christ, she needs a cigarette.

***  
Having just managed to catch the last train out of Waterloo, it’s almost midnight by the time Jocelyn finds herself hovering in the threshold to her mum’s ward at the cottage hospital in Broadchurch. She made phone calls and did emails on the train. She’s supposed to be in court tomorrow, but she managed to get in touch with the judge, who readily agreed to delay proceedings until Monday.

“Absolutely no question,” he’d said without hesitation, “Go.”

She’d hoped for, even anticipated, such a response, but it’s gratifying to hear it in any case. As little town after darkened village moved swiftly past outside her window seat on the train, she silently congratulated herself: It’s times such as these that her carefully cultivated reputation for professionalism and integrity proves worth the sacrifices she had to make along the way.

Not that there have been that many ‘times such as these.’ So far. But her mum’s getting older now. And her own eyesight has been a concern lately, her headaches increasingly frequent.

Speaking of which, she reminds herself (again) to make an appointment with the ophthalmologist. It’s been on her to-do list for weeks now, but the current trial is taking all of her time and energy. And now there’s this unplanned and thoroughly inconvenient trip home…

Choices. Compartments. Sacrifices.

Abruptly and entirely unbidden, her mind’s eye drifts back to that terrible New Year’s Day almost a decade ago. The crisp, clear sky. Maggie’s dazzling smile. Her gloved hand reaching for Jocelyn’s. _It has to be now_ , Jocelyn snarled at herself in that split second before she ruined everything. That moment in which she should have explained that she was scared—bloody terrified—of the feelings filling her heart, of what they meant, and of how they could torpedo her career.

And even then, even after lying, she could so easily have apologized, walked back her words, kissed away the hurt she had caused. That’s what she had wanted to do. And Maggie would have understood, would have forgiven her. But no.

Still, the sacrifice had been worth it. Mostly.

She’s now among the top criminal prosecution barristers in the country, and law school graduates are pounding down her door for pupillages—despite having made very clear the fact that she only accepts two each year, and that they should be women, preferably women of colour. She’s thrice turned down appointments to the bench. She simply can’t imagine not being a litigator; it’s her life’s blood, what she’s good at, where she feels most alive. ( _Those six months spent falling in love with Maggie excepted_ , she reminds herself ruefully.) And, unlike judges who have to hear whatever case is presented, she’s at a point in her career where she can choose clients according to her own politics and ideological commitments. This she wouldn’t trade for a thousand judge-ships.

She wouldn’t have traded it even for the past decade spent with the clever and captivating editor of the _Broadchurch Echo_ , of that she is certain.

In hindsight, however, there may have been a way to make _both_ work. It is possible that she’d been overly concerned about how loving Maggie, being with her, being _seen_ with her, would affect her career.

Still, sacrifices were made, and there’s no way to walk them back. Even if she wanted to.

And, now, all these years later, here she is: Maggie Radcliffe. Jocelyn’s very own path not taken. Sitting so quiet and still by her mother’s bedside, not ten steps in front of her, all that awe-inspiring professional ferocity transformed and calmly focused on a dozing Veronica. Although she can’t see Maggie’s face, she can tell her blonde hair is a bit longer now, the wavy perm gone. But as she watches her absentmindedly drag her fingers across her forehead, Jocelyn can’t help but grin; those bangs are clearly as errant as ever.

With her other hand, the brash, bold editor of the _Echo_ is holding her mum’s. It is peaceful, lovely. A very different, very private side to these two dynamic, dauntless women. No wonder they’re friends, Jocelyn thinks to herself with a soft smile, feeling rather like an interloper.

At the sight of Maggie’s hand covering Veronica’s, her thumb stroking the soft skin there, Jocelyn is catapulted back to that wet October night in London. She remembers so intensely the feel of Maggie’s palm, soft and warm against her own, long fingers twined together, her hand in the small of Maggie’s back, the heat of Maggie’s breath on her neck… _Bloody hell_.

Jocelyn would never in a million years have guessed when she woke up in her Farringdon flat this morning that she’d end the day at the cottage hospital in Broadchurch. With Maggie Radcliffe. Because Veronica had come frighteningly close to accidentally asphyxiating herself.

And it’s not hard to imagine the current scenario under very different circumstances: The two of them, a seasoned couple now, caring for Veronica. Maggie doing a bedside shift while Jocelyn runs to the little first floor café to get them each a cuppa. And then heading home. Together. Had she known her own heart.

In shaking her head free of this wistful silliness, the buckle at the wrist of Jocelyn’s camel cashmere coat scrapes against the door jam, causing Maggie to turn around.

Eyebrows raised, she forces herself to wait as Jocelyn searches her eyes, her face, wondering what she expects to find there. _Nothing if I can help it_ , Maggie reminds herself. Jocelyn Knight doesn’t deserve anything she has to give.

“Hello,” Jocelyn almost whispers, not quite trusting herself not to cry. Whether with regret or worry or heartache, she can’t quite discern. But hot tears press just behind her eyes anyway.

“Hi,” Maggie replies as she stands, bringing her coat, scarf, and bag with her. She doesn’t recognize her own voice; it’s terse, clipped, strained. As if her heart is stuck in her throat.

“Thank you for waiting,” Jocelyn says as she spies her mum’s dark purple travel duffle, more than familiar from their bi-annual mother-daughter weekends at Jocelyn’s in London, “and thanks for going to the house.”

With a nod and a smile that she knows doesn’t quite reach her eyes, Maggie swings expertly into her coat, hoists her bag up and over her shoulders, and wraps her knit scarf around her neck. She can’t trust her voice right now.

She’s turning to leave just as Jocelyn’s gaze shift towards Veronica, asleep in the bed behind them. With a crooked smile, Maggie watches fondly the prickly QC’s eyes soften, her lips part, her brow knit together in worry. And when she bends to kiss her mum ever so gently on the forehead, Maggie can’t help but remember the feel of those lips, soft and warm, on her own all those years ago...

Thankfully, this preposterous trip down memory lane is interrupted by the doctor, who, with a brief nod of acknowledgement to Maggie on her way past, sweeps efficiently in, the back of her white lab coat whipping in the breeze she herself has created.

“Ms. Knight?” she asks by way of a greeting and holds out her hand to Jocelyn, “I’m Dr. Lloyd. Karen Lloyd. I was on duty when they brought your mum in.”

Jocelyn wordlessly shakes the outstretched hand, and Maggie knows her cue when she hears it.

“Keep me posted, yes?” she asks of Jocelyn, heading for the door.

“Wait! Maggie!” Jocelyn wants a second pair of ears. And eyes. “Will you stay? Please?” Especially eyes. Just in case.

And Maggie is so surprised that the illustrious Jocelyn Knight is asking for help at all, let alone hers, that she looks for approval from the doctor, who nods in assent, and then Maggie can only stammer, “Uh, sure. Yes. Okay.”

“Doctor…” Jocelyn glances quickly down at the nametag on her lab coat, “Dr. Lloyd, this is Maggie Radcliffe. A friend of—”

She was going to say, “a friend of mine,” but that’s not really true. If they were ever friends, they most certainly aren’t now. “A friend of my mum’s,” she revises. That will do. And it has the added benefit of being true.

“We’ve met,” Dr. Lloyd says to Maggie with a warm smile laced, Jocelyn notices, with just a touch of spirited mischief.

 _Of course_ , Jocelyn chastises herself, _of course Maggie would have already met the doctor. They’d spoken earlier._

Dr. Lloyd turns back to Jocelyn, all business now. “Maggie’s told you what happened?”

Jocelyn nods in the affirmative.

“Your mum presented with clear signs of carbon monoxide poisoning. I ordered some blood work just to be sure. And to rule out a few other things. The results came back about an hour ago: Her carboxyhaemoglobin level is just over twenty-three percent, which, although not considered ‘severe,’ does indicate a fairly dangerous exposure over a concentrated period of time.

She’ll probably be fine. Physically. I do want to keep her for a couple of days as a precaution. But,” Dr. Lloyd pauses to make sure she’s got Jocelyn’s full attention, “I’m concerned about her being on her own moving forward. The dementia is fairly advanced.”

Understanding, thinking, agreeing, Jocelyn nods slowly, silently. She inhales contemplatively before shifting her gaze to her mum asleep on the bed behind them. All she can think about is the stack of briefs on top of her filing cabinet, the police reports abandoned on her desk, and the three appointments and a court appearance she had to cancel tomorrow in order to be here. _This_ , she thinks to herself, _is going to be a logistical nightmare_.

“Look, it’s late,” Dr. Lloyd begins, looking to Maggie for support, “go home and get some sleep. I’ll have my office call you in the morning, and we can figure out where to go from here, okay?”

Following the doctor’s lead (because her father taught her how to just be a good person, plain and simple), Maggie steps forward and says to Jocelyn, “Come on, I gotta get to a bed. Let me give you a lift home. And for fuck’s sake,” she warns as Jocelyn begins to object, “don’t give me a hard time. No taxis this late anyway.”

That’s just logical. And Jocelyn always did like logic.

***  
“How did…? Were you at the house?” Jocelyn asks as soon as Maggie’s cleared the cottage hospital car park.

“No. I was at work. The sirens had just started when Yvonne called me about fire trucks heading up to Briar Cliff. I just had this feeling… Your mum’s been pretty out of it this last month or so.”

“I was hoping she’d be alright on her own for a bit longer.”

Maggie nods. Jocelyn would have been home in a few weeks for Christmas. Her regular December holiday. When those luscious silk blouses and crisply tailored wool suits are exchanged for soft knit jumpers and blue jeans.

“I ran as fast as I could. I got there just after the paramedics did. Jan Barnsley made sure to let me know that it was she who smelled gas and called 999.”

Jocelyn catches the disdain in Maggie’s tone and can’t resist a knowing smirk; she’s never much liked the local conservative politician either. Jan’s reprehensible politics notwithstanding, she was a bit of a bully at school, always picking on the younger girls. And Jocelyn is more gratified than she’d care to admit that Maggie Radcliffe shares her time-honoured antipathy toward Councilmember Barnsley.

Then, for the briefest of moments, she misses quite acutely knowing Maggie’s perspective on things, her always well-informed opinions. She’s jolted unexpectedly back to her balcony in Farringdon: the warm evening sun on her face, a glass of wine to hand, and cordless phone to her ear, deep in conversation with the _Broadchurch Echo_ ’s clever new editor. Who happened also to be very beautiful. But Jocelyn never allowed herself to think about that back then.

That’s all in the past, though. And best left there.

Rolling her eyes, she returns to the thread. “I’m gonna have to be nice to her now, aren’t I?”

Maggie smirks. “Not if you don’t want to be.”

They share a knowing snort as Maggie pulls into the gravel driveway atop Briar Cliff.

“Well, thanks for the ride. And for your help today.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Maggie, are you…” Jocelyn ventures, knowing full well that she got off the hook easily tonight, “I can imagine how busy you are…” Bloody hell she really does hate having to ask for help. And from Maggie Radcliffe, of all people.

_Best just get on with it!_

“Do you have time to come with me to the hospital tomorrow,” she asks hurriedly, “I know Mum will appreciate you being there.”

What she doesn’t say is that she suspects her own eyes won’t be up to all the reading and signing of paperwork.

In the driver’s seat, Maggie turns her whole upper body sharply to meet Jocelyn’s gaze, which she hadn’t until that moment realized she’d been avoiding. Brows furrowed in disbelief, she searches those still-alluring pools of pale blue for clarity. For understanding. For confirmation that she heard the question properly.

“I can,” Maggie begins slowly, “if you really want me to…”

Jocelyn nods in the affirmative.

“But, Jocelyn… Dr. Lloyd—Karen—is my partner.”

Maggie knows very well that “partner” is far too strong a word to describe a relationship that’s barely six weeks old. But it’s just easier. And to agree to go to the hospital with Jocelyn tomorrow, to help her make arrangements and get Veronica settled, well...

“It just didn’t feel right for you not to know that,” Maggie explains. Best that they’re all playing with the same deck of cards.

And, petal, although she’s not proud of it, Maggie can’t resist a bit of smug satisfaction with the fact that Jocelyn now knows that someone else wants what she rejected.

Jocelyn is silent, unmoving, as her quick mind makes sense of this information that, while new, is somehow not a surprise. She replays the interaction between her intrepid journalist and Dr. Lloyd at the cottage hospital: that impish grin the doctor levelled at Maggie, the volumes spoken in the silent looks they shared. Most tellingly, though, Dr. Lloyd—Karen—had referred to Maggie by her first name.

How had Jocelyn not noticed that the instant it happened? She really is off her game this evening.

But she accepts in silence the disappointment this news causes; it hadn’t even occurred to her that Maggie would have a partner. Likely because she had always assumed that her mum kept her in the loop about the major comings and goings of the Echo’s editor. Exasperated, she looks to the car’s ceiling: Former botany lecturer Veronica describes her clifftop walks with her journalist friend in painstaking detail, often down to the last clump of moss, but she somehow forgot to mention that Maggie has a partner. Jocelyn exhales slowly, a combination of irritation and heartbreak.

“Ooh, I almost forgot,” Maggie continues, changing the subject, “I hope you won’t mind…”

She switches on the car’s roof lamp to dig a folded sheet of paper out of her coat pocket, which she then unfolds it and hands over to Jocelyn, “I did a bit of research while I was waiting for you earlier…”

Jocelyn takes the piece of paper. She squints, trying to read around that blurry spot. It is a list. Of care homes.

She looks back up as Maggie continues, preemptively defending herself against an attack about privacy and compartments and boundaries, “I figured you might have to make some decisions quickly. Thought you might like a head start.”

Jocelyn glances down again at the journalist’s clear, bold handwriting, still familiar from their correspondence during those six months a decade ago, and her tummy somersaults inexplicably at having this little piece of Maggie to take with her, to keep. For her very own. Then she looks back up into those grey-green eyes, honest and kind, and tries to communicate the gratitude that she can’t quite articulate.

She searches her bag for her reading glasses as Maggie continues:

“I narrowed it down to two near you in London and two here in Dorset. Only one in Broadchurch proper, I’m afraid,” she explains, using a finger to point to the third on the list, “but it looks promising.”

Even _with_ her glasses, Jocelyn is having a hard time. She really does need to make that appointment with the ophthalmologist; this problem is getting worse rather than better. And it’s getting harder and harder to quell the panic.

What if it can’t be remedied? What if it keeps getting worse? What if she can’t practice anymore? Her photographic memory has always been her secret weapon. How can she do her job otherwise?

Squinting, she blinks slowly, attempting to focus her increasingly disobedient eyes on Maggie’s list.

“Jocelyn? You alright?”

“Yes. I… Yes. Just tired,” she lies, tucking her glasses back into her bag.

But the keen observational skills of a seasoned journalist combined with an intuitive nose for news mean that Maggie isn’t buying a single thing Jocelyn is selling.

Still, she’s exhausted; it had already been a long day _before_ the shit hit the fan up on Briar Cliff, and she knows she’s too tired to deal effectively with anything else tonight.

“What time tomorrow, then?” she asks, returning to Jocelyn’s original request.

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll head to the hospital first thing. I’ve got mum’s car. And then once I hear from the doctor’s office, I can ring you to meet me?”

“Sure thing. I’ll be at work from 8.00.”

Nodding, and with another look to Maggie that she hopes will be read as gratitude that she can’t quite express, Jocelyn puts the list of care homes into her pocket and swings open the car door.

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“Yup.”

***  
Thanks to Maggie’s savvy research, it’s taken just over an hour to make all the arrangements to get Veronica transferred to the care home in Broadchurch. As Jocelyn suspected, there had been much paperwork to read and sign. But now it’s not even half-ten, and all the I’s seem to have been dotted.

According to the doctor— _Karen is her name, and she is Maggie’s partner_ , Jocelyn reminds herself, as she watches and admires the easy rapport between them— there remain only a few more T’s to cross, and then everything will be set for when Veronica is released from hospital, probably the day after tomorrow.

And it is to get those lingering T’s from her assistant that Karen’s gone.

No sooner has she left the room, though, than Maggie finally pounces, whispering tersely: “Jocelyn?! What the ever-loving hell is going on?!”

“What? I don’t—” But Jocelyn knows well enough that Maggie’s found her out. _As if she wouldn’t have done_. Still, she tries lying anyway.

“Nothing,” she hisses back.

Maggie raises her eyebrows. “You’re having trouble reading.” It isn’t a question.

“It’s fine,” Jocelyn warns, looking ominously over the top of her reading glasses in an attempt to intimidate the pushy journalist into, for once in her life, taking the hint.

But who’s she kidding? Maggie Radcliffe isn’t one of her pupils, and she certainly wasn’t ever cowed into submission by The Barrister. Quite the opposite, in fact; Maggie was the one person in her world who had ever actually provided a consistent, credible challenge. A capable and accomplished professional in her own right, Maggie had never been the least bit intimidated by Jocelyn’s qualifications or connections, her accolades and awards. And she couldn’t have cared less about Jocelyn’s winning record, all the high-profile cases, how smart she is, or how much money she made.

With Maggie she had been able to be just Jocelyn. The person. The woman.

Maggie saw her. Understood her somehow. Even when she hadn’t understood herself. And Jocelyn had treasured every minute of it.

Then she threw it all away.

“It’s not fine,” Maggie insists, “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She wants me to see an ophthalmologist. To make sure.”

“Of what?”

“That it is what she thinks it is.”

“And what’s that?”

“Macular degeneration.”

“What does that mean?”

“Some sight loss, definitely. Total sight loss, possibly. I don’t really know. I’m not sure I want to know. Which is why,” she says firmly, holding Maggie’s unrelenting gaze, glinting slate grey under the fluorescent lights, “I haven’t made the appointment.”

“Jocelyn, you have to!” Maggie insists, remembering how long her own mother had waited before seeing a doctor. Until it was too late. “You have to find out. Once you know, you can do something about it.”

“There’s nothing _to_ do. There’s no cure.”

“Surely there must be _something_ they can do?! Medications, treatments?”

“So I’m told.”

“Alright then!”

As far as Maggie is concerned, that’s the end of the argument, and she’s tempted to hand Jocelyn her mobile and watch her make the call right then and there. At almost the same moment, though, as Jocelyn’s slender fingers pluck nervously at the soft brown folds of her cashmere roll neck, the full force of the spikey barrister’s fear and anxiety becomes glaringly obvious, and Maggie can only think to suggest what she wished for herself back when she was going through chemo:

“Could you…,” she ventures, “Why not ask someone to go with you? For support.”

 _For goodness sake_ , Jocelyn thinks to herself, doing all she can not to outright guffaw at the absurd suggestion, _who the bloody hell would I ask?_ She settles instead for a sardonic eye roll. All her friends are work friends, not personal ones. There are a couple of women among the small group with whom she periodically attends concerts that she could ask, but… No. Private lives should stay private.

“Well, if you want someone to keep you company…”

Jocelyn splutters in disbelief before realizing that Maggie is actually quite serious. “You’d really do that?”

“What are friends for,” Maggie quips.

Inhaling sharply, Jocelyn looks pointedly Maggie: _Friends?_ And Maggie looks back at Jocelyn: _Always friends._ Pools of pale blue communicate so easily with flinty green-grey, almost as if they could have that moment back again, up on their bench that New Year’s Day.

But then Karen comes sweeping back in with the paperwork with those few more T’s to be crossed.

***

It’s not until a half hour later, when they’re just about to part ways, Jocelyn for Veronica’s ward and Maggie for the elevator, that Jocelyn asks, “How did you know? About my eyes?”

The answer is so obvious that the question strikes Maggie as comical, and she’s about to say so. But then it occurs to her that it’s possible Jocelyn doesn’t have anyone close enough to her to have bothered noticing. Or, if they did, if her pupils, clerk, or junior have noticed, perhaps they haven’t said anything because she’s their senior. And The Barrister, Maggie remembers with a nostalgic fondness, can be a bit of a dragon. Jocelyn, she realizes, must actually be quite lonely.

“Well,” Maggie begins, “you’re squinting, rubbing your eyes and your temples, squeezing the bridge of your nose. My guess is: a headache brought on by chronic eye strain. Am I right?”

Jocelyn nods.

“But honestly?” Maggie can’t help but smirk here.

Jocelyn quirks her head and narrows her eyes, waiting for the big reveal.

“It was mostly because you asked for my help. Presumably to be a second pair of eyes on the legal documents, yes?”

Jocelyn’s forgotten how very good her intrepid journalist is at her job. Infernal curiosity meets keen intelligence, excellent training, sharp instincts, and decades of experience.

“Guilty as charged,” she confesses, and then: “You’d really come all the way to London,” she asks doubtingly as Maggie pushes the ‘down’ arrow to call the lift.

“Of course I would. If you asked me to.”

‘What are friends for,’ Maggie had asked. And, truthfully, Jocelyn doesn’t really know. She’d never had any—at least, none who would do for her what Maggie’s offered to do. And, just as the lift doors open, the question is out of her mouth before her brain has a chance to stop it. She needs to be sure.

“Are we, though?”

“Are we what,” Maggie asks offhandedly, stepping inside and pushing the button to get her down to the car park.

“Friends.”

“Ah.”

Maggie thinks for a moment, remembering that she did say so, didn’t she? But she has to get back to work, and she’s not even close to being ready for a serious conversation about how they left things that New Year’s Day. So, her response is predictably glib, but not any less genuine for being so:

“Only if you make that bloody appointment!”

And as the lift doors close on that captivating smile, Jocelyn can’t help but roll her eyes at Maggie’s antics, still achingly familiar from all those years ago. But, later that afternoon, once she’s back at the house, she does as she’s told.

_The End._


End file.
